


Though Some Have Changed

by executrix



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, Weddings, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers doesn't believe in premarital sex. He and his wife have a high opinion of marital sex, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though Some Have Changed

**Author's Note:**

> "In My Life" is, of course, by Lennon & McCartney and not by me.
> 
> Lolaraincoat asked me to include a footnote pointing out that wartime is not, historically, what one might call a hotbed of chastity. 
> 
> Is "really not like what the author usually writes" a Warning?
> 
> Written for inkvoices' "End of Virginity" challenge.

**1\. There Are Places I’ll Remember All My Life**

Steve Rogers thanks God every day that Tony likes to dance. Not that he’d get very far on Dancing With the Stars, unless he bought it and put a K in it. And he’d never get to Vegas on So You Think You Can Dance. But there’s a club that Tony likes to go to, explaining that for a while swing dancing was popular and now it survives in this—catacomb. 

To Steve, “swing dancing” is like “paper book” or “voice message”: one of those double words that there should be only one of. It’s dancing, that’s all, and it’s a nice way to spend a Friday night and maybe meet a girl to take to the movies on Saturday. 

He hates that he lied to Peggy Carter about that, in a transparent ploy to get his arms around her. Of course Steve knew how to dance, everybody did then. True, he spent more time practicing with the radio on, with a rope tied to the doorknob for a partner, than he ever found girls willing to dance with a scrawny civilian when there were handsome men in uniform enjoying a leave in New York. But his embarrassing vaudevillian interlude put him in contact with showgirls who taught him all the latest dance steps. This is not a euphemism.

Tony misjudges a throw, and his partner slides between Tony’s legs, as expected, and then just keeps going. For a second, Steve can see her long bare legs, and a glimpse of lace-trimmed tap pants, before she pulls down her billowy skirt. She skids to a halt at Steve’s feet, stealing a base. He bends to help her up, and she locks her fingers around Steve’s wrist, flipping up to a crouch, then stands up gracefully. Now Steve can see that she has long brown hair, and she’s wearing an embroidered peasant blouse that has slid to bare one shoulder. They change the hold, so he holds the hand that he grasped and puts his other hand on the shoulder that is still clad in flowered muslin. Her free hand touches his waist lightly. She’s tall, especially in the wedge sandals tied to her ankles with black rickrack. Her painted wood bangles clack.

Tony, meanwhile, is dancing with someone else, like a factory worker who has sent one widget off on its way on the conveyor belt and turned his attention to the next. 

“I’m Steve,” he says. It’s pretty dark in the club, but when they glide past a table lamp, her eyes widen. She nods a little, but New Yorkers are blasé about celebrities.

“I’m Dawn,” she says. “Thanks for the save! Well, I guess that’s what you do.”

The next number starts. “Do you do West Coast style?” he asks, politely, and she nods. 

The one after that is a slow dance. Back in the day, Steve was always amazed that girls let perfect strangers hold them close and listen to love songs. But then, Victorian girls would be humiliated if their ankles were glimpsed, while going to dinner in dresses that practically put their nipples in their Brown Windsor soup. For those who can manage it, it’s all a matter of custom, of fitting in with expectations. 

Dawn goes to one of the little tables, picks up the clutch bag being tended by a winded friend, and heads for the door. She waves at Steve, and he rushes over to her, then casually asks if she’ll be back next Friday. She says, “Sure.”

The next Friday, they dance most of a set together, but Dawn says she has to leave early, she brought work home over the weekend. She asks if he likes Hirschfeld, there’s a show at the Society of Illustrators. He says, quite truthfully, that he loves Hirschfeld, although he doesn’t mention that he went to the vernissage. They arrange to meet there on Wednesday night.

Dawn gives him a business card—Steve can tell it’s engraved, rubbing his fingers over the raised print. It says, “Dawn Summers, Ph.D., Director, Translation Unit K, Watcher’s Council North America,” in the DelFloria Building, with both office and cell phone numbers. What it doesn’t say is that Unit K covers the languages of telepathic demons, who are pretty sloppy about writing things down, so there’s a lot of primary research just finding documents before cryptanalysis can begin.  
From what she’s heard about Steve Rogers, Dawn suspects that he thinks that men should do the telephoning. If he shows up on Wednesday, then he shows up. If he calls, he calls. Of course Steve shows up, even if he hadn’t been looking forward to it, he approaches appointments with more gravitas than the average sovereign nation does with treaties. 

Afterwards they go to Chinatown for steamed flounder and water spinach with Chinese sausage. Steve escorts Dawn home. She offers him a cup of coffee. To her surprise, after a lot of flummoxing around with her French press, which she has had for two years but never used, he does in fact drink two cups of coffee. (Black, two sugars; he grew up with a well-founded suspicion of the freshness of milk in the icebox.) Then he shakes her hand, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves at 10:42 pm.

They have lunch on Monday. Dawn would show him her office but, she explains that since…well…her employers are very strict about security. Steve assumes, and Dawn lets him assume, that she means “since 911” and not “since The First Evil exterminated the Council leading to some much-needed repairs.”  
On Saturday, after the New York Philharmonic, Steve explains that it’s not winning him any popularity contests, but as far as he’s concerned, sex should mean something. The guys he knew, being thousands of miles away from Father Keegan’s confessional took them two ways. Some of them figured that that was far enough to get them a little privacy. Others concluded that, in desperate situations, they didn’t have the luxury of doing their sinning and counting on having time to repent. The aptly named St. Peter would shake his head, tell them if they’d kept theirs in their pants he’d be sending them to Purgatory for a teensy 30,000 years instead of Hell forever. Then he’d hit the buzzer.

Dawn says that she’s met too many guys to whom it didn’t mean anything to disagree with him.

“You know what I hate?” Steve says. “When people act like I’m…a refugee from ‘Flowers for Algernon.’” Sure, I’m not from here. But I’m not stupid. That doesn’t make me stupid.”

Dawn shrugs. “I’m not from here either. People in this country…in this Reality…aren’t comfortable with immigrants. Not comfortable with difference.”  
Three weeks later, the photo caption in Vogue’s coverage of an American Cancer Society benefit reads “Steve Rogers (Captain America), with Unknown Friend.” All of the women are wearing mermaid gowns. Dawn’s is ruched amethyst satin. It cost $129 at Loehmann’s. Her hair is up in a French twist and her freshwater pearl earrings almost brush her shoulders.

“Is it poison?” Dawn asks, about the boeuf bourgignon from “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” the most elaborate recipe she’s ever made. She cooks dinner for 

Steve fairly often, figuring that it’s amortized because she doesn’t have to cook breakfast for him. 

“No, it’s good,” Steve says, loyally. As for that other time, anyone could forget to take the gross little plastic bag out of the chicken.

“I think we should stop seeing other people,” Dawn says when the plates have been loaded into the dishwasher. “You’re…I…you’re special.”

“We were seeing other people?” Steve asks.

“Not anymore,” Dawn says. She opens her laptop, highlights the Little Black Book folder, and deletes it.  
Neither of them has a Facebook page, so they don’t have to change their relationship status.

 **2\. Some Forever, Not For Better**  
Dawn knows that one of the numerous subjects Buffy doesn’t want to talk about is Riley. So she sends Buffy a really cute scarf that she found at the PS 71 flea market and makes sure it arrives before Skyping Buffy in Prague. 

Even after all these years, their relationship is a little strained. Usually if someone makes the Supreme Sacrifice on your behalf, you don’t have to pass them the little creamed onions with the crushed cornflakes on top when they come back for the Yam Sham. Yet, in the opposite direction, Giles’ thumbs-down vote in favor of the rest of the world has also damaged Dawn’s relationship with him. 

Buffy respects Dawn for making a stand on a matter of principle. But whoring after strange Slayers was bad enough. Throwing Buffy out of her own house was the frozen limit. Sometimes when the exchange rate deteriorates Buffy contemplates selling the rights to a Lifetime movie.

“Dawny!” Buffy says. Her hair is kind of messy and she’s not wearing any makeup but Dawn gives her the benefit of the doubt. Dawn herself, below camera level, is wearing plush slippers that look like foxes, and sweatpants and a t-shirt from the UU Snappin’ Turtles that Willow sent her. “What’s up with the bribeyness?”

“Well, if you read Page Six…”

“Yet another reason why I live in Europe…”

“…you might know that I’m seeing Steve Rogers. Who is not called Captain European Union, so I guess you’re going to pretend you don’t know who he is.”  
“No, I’m not. Is he boring? He looks boring.”

“He is not boring! Steve is serious!” 

Buffy nods her head. That means “boring” but, so not her problem. She is going to point out that Steve, having been born in 1920, is way too old for Dawn, but that is not an argument she thinks she can win. (Neither could Willow.) Steve is probably about the apparent-age that Angel was back in Buffy’s days of Bare Legality, and now Dawn is a respectable self-supporting adult. 

Buffy points out that they only have to have half the Embarrassing Superhero Mutual Disclosure conversation, because Steve knows that she knows he’s Captain America, and it’s not like The Council maintains a Statute of Secrecy or anything.

“Steve, you know my last name is Summers,” Dawn says, while they’re eating gelato on the High Line. 

“Wait, you’re Scott’s—sister? Cousin? I’m a nitwit, I should have realized,” Steve says. “Although, he never said anything about you. Hey, I guess he wants to keep the guys away from his beautiful sister…cousin…”

“No relation,” Dawn says. “Except, I have this sister…”  
 **3\. Some Are Gone, But Some Remain**

“Me? You’re asking ME?” Tony asks. Steve shakes his head—what was he thinking?—and asks Pepper if he can talk to her about something personal. 

Pepper kisses him on both cheeks to congratulate him, tells him that she’s pretty sure that Dawn will say “Yes,” and that it’s better not to buy the ring first because Dawn might be really, really happy to marry him but not be too crazy about the ring he picked out but not want to return it. Or she might want to get a less expensive ring and spend the rest on a sofa or something.

Pepper can recommend some jewelers—she thinks that Dawn would like an artisanal ring, and maybe even want to be involved in the design. Steve can meet with the jeweler and establish a price range, then come in with Dawn and the jeweler will show her the rings that Steve can afford. 

“Here,” Dawn says, “I think it fully expresses your native terroir.” She stirs the chocolate syrup with an iced-tea spoon and tintctures it with cold milk. She carefully pours the seltzer down the handle of the spoon, stopping just when the collar of foam brims above the bulbous coca-cola glass. Steve takes a sip, puts it down, and doesn’t get to say “I have something to ask you” before Dawn leans over and licks the froth off his top lip. She mixes one for herself, only hers is raspberry, which Steve doesn’t think is even canonical, and swallows hard enough to cough when he finishes the sentence.

It turns out that Dawn doesn’t want an engagement ring (she whispers in his ear, “I hope it will be a *very* short engagement,” and he shivers) so they go to Tiffany’s and get plain platinum bands, which aren’t very showy but are unusually strong and durable for an Earth metal.

“>lovely & > temperate,” in very small letters, is engraved inside Dawn’s ring. Steve’s just says “D.S. to S.R. Forever.” 

Dawn says she isn’t going to change her name. This sets Steve back for a moment, but then he realizes that, back in the day, he was very partial to Joan Crawford, who never changed her name despite marrying a lot of different fellows. He hopes that this will not be true of Dawn, and even if she is widowed (which easily could happen) she will keep the number of remarriages within reasonable limits.

Then Steve realizes that, although in the superhero community, name changes are frequent (with the same hero holding several sobriquets, or a secret identity being passed on from holder to holder), for just regular people, it’s a big deal. He loves her and he’s not planning to change *his* name so if she doesn’t want to change hers, so be it.

Steve fondly remembers the football weddings from his old neighborhood (like the nuptials—not before time!—of Sandra Gahegan and Nino Colavito). There’d be a long table in the basement of St. Brendan’s, with big pans of baked ziti and plates of hero sandwiches, and when a guy finished a tumbler of the wine that Nonno made in the basement, he’d yell, “Hey, Dom! T’row me a meatball!” and the sandwich would go airborne, the wax paper so cunningly twisted that it would arrive intact.  
Correctly, Steve surmises that, even if he could get Dawn on board with this, none of his S.H.I.E.L.D. teammates would agree. 

The invitation says “Black Tie. Decorations Will be Worn,” which in this case does not mean nose rings. There is so much fruit salad on Steve’s Army dress uniform that, without super-strength, he might tip over. And the black tie thing is to reiterate: No Spandex. 

Steve says that he knows there are going to be all kinds of unusual people on the bride’s side. He can’t remember where he heard it, but he wants to make it clear that absolutely nobody is going to get killed at his wedding no matter how many Dothrakis Dawn feels compelled to invite. 

The wedding planner is able to reassure him on this point.

“Dancing lessons,” the wedding planner says. “It’s very important to look good for that first dance, it’s all going down on the videos, and the Web feed…”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, ma’am,” Steve says, and he and Dawn share a private smile. 

Steve looks over Dawn’s shoulder at the spreadsheet. “That’s not a cake,” he said. “That’s…a car! Or maybe the down payment on a whole house!” 

The wedding planner quits, and this time she means it. Willow promises to do the cake. It’s not clear whether she does, as alleged, use the recipe from Smitten Kitchen or just casts Pastrificus, but a lovely cake appears, four square layers of delicious coconut cake with buttercream roses on a coat of shiny fondant. On top, there is a little bride statue with a key glued to it and a Captain America action figure.

Steve is prepared to put his foot down: a church wedding, or the deal is off. He doesn’t go to the same church every Sunday, or even the same denomination (he doesn’t *really* believe anymore that he’ll go to Hell if he steps foot in a Protestant church) but some kind of blessing is mandatory. Hardly anybody knows that the S.H.I.E.L.D. chapel even exists, which makes it the perfect venue because it keeps out the paparazzi.

Actually this is more than fine with Dawn. A church would have been a problem if Spike had been invited (which Dawn would have insisted on) or if Angel had been (which Buffy would probably have demanded) but it’s been years since their dust blew past an alley in Los Angeles. 

Thor has sent his regrets, and a solid-gold mead horn. Dawn has a horrified moment of wondering if Steve put it on their registry. Loki wouldn’t be invited, and would probably go all Sleeping Beauty, but he’s is still in Asgard Alcatraz. So that’s covered. 

Dawn’s Bridezilla moment is insisting on inviting Andrew; Steve has no idea why this is even an issue. She’s always liked Andrew, and as far as she’s concerned, his work for the Council has made up for…some of the things he did in the past, and haven’t they all done something they’re ashamed of?

Buffy has to be her Maid of Honor, and Willow has to be her Matron of Honor. Of all the parents she has lost, Dawn misses Tara the most, but habeas corpus would be no more effective for her than for Spike or Angel. 

Dawn also insists on Xander giving her away. He points out that, since he is now on his third marriage after being notorious for not turning up for his scheduled first wedding, he is kind of a Jonah, but it doesn’t get him off the hook. 

Willow is pretty defensive about being married. Sometimes she insists it was just a Green Card thing, and sometimes she says that they’re both bisexual so if it’s not an issue for them it shouldn’t be for anybody else. Dawn implores her not to share the latter riff with Steve, who wouldn’t think there was anything surprising about a grown woman being married anyway.

If it had been possible, of course Willow would have married Tara. Kennedy: well, no. Willow’s sure that Steve would understand that, during wartime—historically, a time of notable increase in sexual promiscuity—liaisons form among people who do not expect to survive long enough to seriously get on one another’s nerves and then spend the armistice and the years of peace wondering what they were thinking.

**4\. With Lovers and Friends I Still Can Recall**

Worst tuxedo: hands down, Dr. Banner, although disposability is an issue. Best tuxedo: surprisingly to the tote board, which had Tony at 1:3, actually Director Fury.  
Xander peeks through the vestry door, looks around at the assembled congregation, and mutters “’Circus folk.’” 

“Clint really was in the circus, y’know,” Dawn says. 

It’s really early, and Xander is dancing on fire ants, so he walks outside, to where Steve, Nick Fury, and Tony Stark arrived at the altar fifteen minutes before the 11 am kickoff, although Tony is the only one who actually looks nervous. 

Xander takes a long breath, and cowboys up to take Nick Fury aside and ask if he’s sure he has the wedding ring. The “motherfucker” is silent as Director Fury explains that he has frequently planned operations that saved at the very least America and frequently the world, and yes, he is capable of transporting Steve’s wife’s damn wedding ring.

Later on, Xander tells SanDee that they were eyepatch to eyepatch, and the other fellow blinked.

The string quartet tunes up. Xander wonders if it would be tactless or supportive to point out that he has scoped out the fire exit. Buffy does an equipment check for Steve’s ring (stealing Captain America’s wedding ring would be a definite free pass into the Evil League of Evil, even without casualties). Then she hands the bouquet (a flat saucer of massed cream rosebuds streaked with pink, silver streamers) to Dawn. Dawn takes a deep breath, gives a little squeeze to Xander’s waiting arm, and says, “Right foot, on three…”

She’s wearing a full-skirted, ballerina-length gown (it’s too hard to dance with a full-length gown, much less a train) of ivory satin. The dress is strapless so, for the ecclesiastical proprieties, it’s topped with a bolero beaded all over in transparent crystals. Her hair is up in a victory roll, with a saucy little cocktail hat tilted to one side. A spray of beaded netting reaches just to her nose. 

The service is straight out of the prayer book (Xander doesn’t realize when he whispers “sex poodle” under his breath) except, no obeying. Dawn and Steve look at each other for a long time before they move together for their first kiss as husband and wife.

The participants who have swords (a category that naturally includes Natasha with a basket-hilted rapier, and Pepper with the beribboned broadsword that Thor sent along with the mead horn) line up to form an arch of swords, although Clint has a bow and Nick Fury makes a note to kick Stark’s ass for turning up with a plastic light saber.

**5\. In My Life, I’ve Loved Them All**

Before the wedding planner departed, she arranged the extra limousines (over and above the ones supplied by Tony, of course) so it takes just minutes to whisk the guests crosstown to Stark Tower for the reception. 

One of the Stark Tower kitchens provides the heavy hors d’oeuvres and one guy carving steamship rounds of beef and another one carving whole turkeys and a third working an omelet station. There’s a bar that is so open that they might as well just give everyone an IV stand. Willow and Natasha are the only ones who really appreciate the Viennese table. 

A high-pitched squeak of excitement (“The ring! I wanna see the ring!”) resounds. Dawn has her hand out flat, palm up, with Andrew’s left hand down on it.  
“You see, if you look closely, it’s really two that fit together,” Andrew says. “We got civil-unioned in London last year, and then we came over a little early and went to City Hall and got married here,” he said. He lifts his arm overhead and waves frantically until a stocky young man with a beard appears. 

“Gareth is an architect,” Andrew says. “When we were rebuilding Council HQ after, you know, the thing, he tendered for the contract.” 

“And it’s been tender, tender, tender ever since,” Gareth says. “Didn’t get the contract, but.” 

Dawn and Steve settled on Beatles songs—not contemporary for either of them, but from somewhere in the middle. What was once daring youth music is now Easy Listening, but that’s none the worse for a dance routine. The first dance is “In My Life,” (foxtrot), then “Something” (rhumba).

Then the band strikes up “String of Pearls,” because, having ditched the bolero, it’s clear that Dawn is wearing one—the groom’s gift to the bride. The bride’s gift to the groom is a complete set of all the Pantone markers. The guests form a circle, clapping, until Xander cuts in and Pepper dances with Steve. Gradually the dance floor fills, although some of the guests, like Cranford spinsters, believe their dancing days are done. 

“Yes,” Giles tells Clint. “My predecessor was greatly loved. Some very large shoes…well, no shoes of course…to fill.” 

Oz’ wife Nina is very pregnant. Dawn asks if it’s their first, they laugh and show her pictures of their two bushy-haired sons. Steve says that they’re not sure if a super-soldier popsicle and an embodied Energy Being can have kids, but they’re going to try for four. 

Steve, still bemused at being in the position to even have a sister-in-law introduces his newly minted in-law to two of the guests from the groom’s side. “Agent Finn…and Agent Finn,” he says.

“We’ve met,” Buffy says with a rictus.

Oz and Bruce, after a drop or so of The Creature, slide down the wall into lotus position where they sit, comparing meditation techniques.

Buffy and Willow, wondering at a life that ever made a catch-up tete-a-tete necessary, commandeer a table at the back of the room. “I’m the chair of…well, I sort of am the department of Terrestrial Witchcraft at UU,” Willow says. It’s a subject that basically, nobody gives an orangutan’s toss about. She knows she’s basically the trailing spouse and is not thrilled by the situation. “Sometimes I miss Earth,” she confides to Buffy. “Even though it’s kind of unmissable. If you know what I mean.” Buffy does.

“Well, you got back here for the wedding. You can come back. Or visit,” Buffy says. Willow nods, although she had to file a grant application saying they were going to the MLA to recruit a professor of Lancrean lit who can also teach an Alice Walker seminar. Willow is worried that this palpable misrepresentation will be discovered, which would be worse even than breaking the yellow crayon. 

Everybody knows that the MLA isn’t in June.

The band takes a break, and a bunch of the guests head up to the bandstand and start noodling around. It is an impressive lineup for academic honors and badassery, but musicianship, not so much. The vocalist slips the band a couple of hundred dollars. This would seem excessively cautious unless, of course, the keyboardist Hulks out. After a heated colloquy that makes the damage deposit almost seem rational, they settle on the first song they can think of that they all know. Although for this bunch “know” is generous.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. contingent is notably better than the bride’s side (Giles, R., lead guitar, Osbourne, D, bass). Romanov (on drums) and Banner might even have been decent with some rehearsal, but dear God, where’s the Geneva Convention when you need it.

But it is indisputable that you can’t read Director Fury’s poker face.

The band--the one that can play as many as seven completely different chords--comes back, and in exchange for remuneration (rather more than three farthings—additional Benjamins handed over by Tony), plays “Shaft” as Fury leaves the bandstand. 

At some point in the drunken bacchanal that the wedding reception descends into, a few people notice that Steve and Dawn aren’t there anymore. 

**6\. There Is None, Compares with You**  
Steve is still in his uniform, but his tie is a little askew and one of his shoelaces has come untied. Dawn has changed into the dance dress with the big sailor collar that she wore on their third date. Her wedding gown has been folded up in acid-free tissue paper and packed in the box that will be used to preserve it, although no ice is involved. 

Steve is torn between wanting to carry the box for her, the ban on officers in uniform carrying packages, and thinking he’d feel really silly holding a dress box.  
Steve feels a little sad that they’re going to spend their wedding night at a fancy hotel. He thinks it would be better to start their marriage in their own home, but there was no way their new apartment would be ready in time.

As they slip away from the reception, Dawn says that, thanks to Xander’s contractor-fu, the apartment is in fact ready. Steve grabs her and hugs her in fierce gratitude. Then he looks a little sad. Not that he wanted that fancy hotel suite, but he can vividly remember nights when he would have been grateful for a roof over his head, and he hates thinking about it going to waste. 

“It’s okay,” Dawn says. “I asked Reverend Forrell to find a nice young couple who couldn’t afford a honeymoon, and she picked one out.” 

Dawn puts the dress box down and finds the door key in her tiny embroidered drawstring bag. She unlocks the door, tosses the dress box inside, then turns to Steve, her hands on her hips. It takes a second for him to figure out what she means. He grins, makes his hands into a hammock, and, with Dawn’s arms slung around his neck, carries her over the threshold. Then he stands in the middle of the living room, kissing her. He could hold a 117-pound weight forever without strain, but after awhile he thinks that Dawn might want to touch terra firma again, so he eases her down. 

Considering that Steve has initialed every change on every blueprint, the appearance of the apartment is not a great surprise, but he still shakes his head at the thought that this is now his apartment. Where he lives. With his wife. 

The day has been nothing if not stressful, and Dawn suggests that Steve go take a shower. There are lots of fluffy white bath sheets stacked on shelves under the sink, but it takes him a minute or two to find the soap. It’s not in the medicine cabinet, but there’s a china dish full of soaps shaped like seashells. He knows his bathrobe must be somewhere, Dawn seems to have unpacked everything, but he figures, what’s the point? and just puts the wet towel in the laundry hamper and wraps a dry towel around his waist. 

Dawn is seated at the dressing table (a present from Andrew—twenty quid at Bermondsey Market, 683 pounds in shipping and customs duties). One thing Dawn really likes about the dressing table is that the kidney-shaped top is glass. If she clears off all the clutter on top, Steve can kludge it up into a light table.  
Steve can see her back. She’s wearing a foamy sea-blue peignoir over a lighter negligee. He can see three of her face in the angled mirrors but, frustratingly, the reflection of her body between neck and waist is blocked by ranks of crystal perfume bottles and cosmetics jars. 

“We’re not like them,” Dawn says. “We never will be. But we have a home. Together.”

Dawn slowly pulls out the first hairpin, and a banner of gleaming hair shoots down to her shoulder. Steve’s not sure if it’s that, or her lovely smile as she sees him standing behind her, that makes his heart tear at his chest. There are five hairpins on each side. She picks up the silver-backed brush and, unhurriedly, brushes the hair that is already smooth, as Steve caresses her shoulders. 

She stands up and slips the peignoir off her shoulders and lets it form a cloud on the dressing table stool. She walks the four steps to the bed, and bends to slip off a kitten-heeled mule, but Steve is already kneeling at the foot of the bed so he takes off that one, and then the other. He blinks—her toenails are painted iridescent blue, and for a second he wonders what was borrowed. He kisses the arch of her foot, licks between her toes, and heads back up again. 

Dawn murmurs “mmmm” and leans back, then scoots so Steve will be on the bed instead of awkwardly half on-half off it. When he gets up to her knee, she does a bridge, tugs at the hem of her negligee, then pulls it over her head to drape across one of the pillows. Steve watches its flight and thinks damn, there are a lot of pillows on the bed—bolsters, and little square ones, and then just normal ones, although it’s a big enough bed that there are three of those. 

Dawn makes happy, encouraging sounds as Steve licks and nibbles from knee to thigh and slips his hands under a delightfully rounded ass that just fits his cupped hands. Then he stops for a moment and looks. He’s seen naked women at the Art Student’s League, and naked paintings and statues and, unlike Ruskin, greatly prefers the flesh to the representation. He bends his head and licks, realizing that it was ridiculous to expect a taste like hot ice cream even though the slippery texture is similar. Her taste is flat at first, with a hint of vinegar, and then makes him think of blue flowers. There were times that he thought that Dawn had an orgasm or so while they were necking on the couch, but now he’s absolutely sure. 

He really doesn’t know where to go first, talk about “and be one traveler” but he wants to kiss her again so he slides his arm under her shoulder. Dawn whistles softly as the towel unwraps in Steve’s travels. “Hey, is it Fall already?” she says. “’Cause, I must have left my car unlocked and somebody snuck in and left a zucchini on the front seat.” They kiss, and Dawn cups her hands around Steve’s shoulder blades, runs her fingers down his back, and grabs his ass which, Steve thinks, she seems to approve of. He buries his head between her breasts, then moves back so he can caress them. 

Dawn is tempted to whisper, “Harry, yerr a wizard!” but it is too soon for him to learn to be laughed at. She doesn’t think the show will run very long but she doesn’t want it to close in previews, so she just holds on tight and thinks about how she will direct the revival. She kisses Steve’s neck, biting a little but not enough to bring the family business to mind.

“Dawn, sweetheart, I can’t wait any longer,” Steve says.

“You don’t have to,” she says. She turns to him, and in a tenth of a second and a hundred years they slide together with a satisfying magnetic click.

“Everything,” he says. “This moment, just this moment, is enough to pay me back for every bad thing that ever happened to me.”

**7\. In My Life, I’ll Love You More**

“How do you feel?” Dawn asks him.

“Taller,” Steve says.


End file.
